What Happens When a Satanist Dies

by Thursday Simpson

The Seasons don’t fear the Reaper because Autumn can’t develop diabetes. There is so much romance surrounding sick women. Teresa of Avila purging her sex drives to convince her priests that her psychic powers weren’t from Satan. Willow, barely alive in a hospital bed. Chanting a curse to help Buffy get back Angel when earlier in the episode Buffy is shocked Willow knows how to swear.

As I get older I start to fear what will happen after I die. I have panic attacks when I read books where Amazing Grace is sung at funerals, where families gather to mourn their dead relatives. I hate my relatives. I hate Jesus Christ. I don’t want to be saved. I might be a wretch but it’s because I grew up with racist cousins and fundamentalist grandparents. I want my body to be thrown into a field or a river and given back to the Earth.

I wouldn’t mind having a short celebration of life. A celebration where all neighborhood cats are welcome, where Number of the Beast, Somewhere in Time and Don’t Break the Oath are played. Where some of my favorite Belladonna films are also shown, along with Jim Carrey’s Man on the Moon. I would like free condoms and bottles of wine to be given out, I would like people to fuck in my memory.

My mother supports me. But we live in a small town. She looks at Teresa of Avila and sees a saint, not a victim of abuse. My father drives by the prison in our rural Illinois town and thinks, “Well, at least all those guards have a job and can feed their families.” I am too ill to make enough money to live alone and I wouldn’t work if I could. I just want to read, write, cultivate my soul and enjoy the relationships I’m able to find.

Let’s talk about that word, victim. Semantics semantics semantics. I’m tired of surviving. I want to be a victim who takes off her gown and fucks God. I want to be the victim who appears in the nightmares of the boys who raped me.

I’m terrified my mother will cave to the pressure of a Christian funeral. That she will cave to the pressure of having a grave set for some son that she never had. I’m scared that she will smile and thank all of the people who assaulted me, mentally, physically and spiritually when they tell her how sorry they are that I’m fucking dead.

I would like you to suck cock and not only eat, but drink deep, pussy. I probably won’t have a heart attack for at least ten more years. If someone kills me before then, I would like you to insert something beautiful into your anus. This is not a suicide note. But if it were, pet a cat, pet two cats, pet three cats and give them all something to eat.

I am not the only one who died a long time ago. Our lives are shit. Do you think this means I don’t love my friends? Do you think love is a privilege? If no one wants to fuck you, there is pornography. If you can’t smoke, you can drink water or laugh and finger your asshole. There is garlic in every grocery store, video games in every Goodwill and cats in every abandoned building, hiding in every Church basement. You can steal God’s right to kill you and kill yourself, first. This is not suicide ideation. This is learning how to wake up in the morning and make yourself breakfast.

Thursday Simpson is a multimedia artist and a co-founding editor at OUT/CAST, a journal for queer & Midwestern writers. Her first chapbook, Three Gothic Stories, is published with Moonchaps. She composes soundtracks for her writing and maintains a prog, analog synth based aesthetic. She believes in Feline Satan and garlic and onions. Ask her to do an impression of King Diamond or Kevin Steen and she will probably smile. Her Twitter is @JeanBava and her full publication history can be found at www.thursdaysimpson.com